


we can do whatevr u want

by imagines



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: College AU, M/M, fuckboy!JJ, jjbekweek2017, sensitive physically-affectionate bros, with a heart of gold, yuri and otabek are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 14:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11876154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: True to his expectations, Otabek finds himself holed up in the kitchen of Kappa Whatever, leaning against a countertop and sipping awful beer out of a red plastic cup. (Why are they always red, anyway? They do make other colors.)Which is when he is discovered by one of the dime-a-dozen fuckboys milling around the place. Red tank top, black snapback, too much hair gel, perfect fade, perfect ass, the works. Otabek can practically smell the “wanna come over and watch Netflix?” texts that are definitely on this dude’s phone.“Hi,” says Fuckboy, looming. “I’m J.J.” (Day 3 prompt: Uni AU)





	we can do whatevr u want

Yuri doesn’t knock on the door of Otabek’s dorm room, because Yuri never knocks. One day Yuri’s gonna walk in on something he doesn’t want to see, Otabek swears to god.

“Get up,” Yuri orders. “It is _October_ and I have not seen you socialize _once_.”

“I socialize,” Otabek insists.

Yuri scoffs. “When the fuck?”

“Yesterday I met with my Antebellum Crime Lit group.”

“That. Does. Not. Count.” Yuri folds his arms and fixes Otabek with a glare, and Otabek knows he’s not getting out of this one.

“I have to study,” he tries anyway.

“No, you have to come with me to the party tonight at Kappa…whatever it is. Doesn’t matter. Otabek, it’s _homecoming week_.”

“But I don’t care about homecoming week.”

Yuri rubs the bridge of his nose. “Do you at least care about getting laid?”

“Not really, no.”

“You’re a terrible college student. Beka, come on, I need a wingman.”

“You told me I was a horrible wingman.”

“You _are_ a horrible wingman. Okay, fine, I just need some company, is that what you wanna hear? I don’t want to go alone. That’s all. Please?”

Otabek groans, getting to his feet and shoving the chair back under his desk. “Why am I friends with you again?”

“Because you’ve been secretly deeply madly in love with me since the day you laid eyes on me freshman year. Or we just have a lot in common even though you’re boring and, like, eighty. One of those.”

“I just want it on record that I am going to a bad party to drink even worse beer, where no one will talk to me except you. For you. You’re welcome.”

“Noted,” Yuri chirps. “Do you want to borrow my lip gloss?”

“I do not. Thank you though.”

“It’s strawberry-flavored. Wanna taste it?” Yuri purses his lips at Otabek.

Otabek stares at him. “Yuri, I don’t always know when you’re fucking with me.”

“I’m usually fucking with you. But not right now.”

Otabek pecks him on the mouth, then licks his own lips. “Wow,” he says, sounding more impressed than he wants to.

“Good, right? _Sure_ you don’t want any?” Yuri wheedles.

“I don’t think it really—” Otabek looks down at his jeans and cardigan. “Goes with the outfit.”

Yuri shrugs. “Your loss. Come on, get your jacket, let’s go!”

 

True to his expectations, Otabek finds himself holed up in the kitchen of Kappa Whatever, leaning against a countertop and sipping awful beer out of a red plastic cup. (Why are they always red, anyway? They do make other colors.)

Which is when he is discovered by one of the dime-a-dozen fuckboys milling around the place. Red tank top, black snapback, too much hair gel, perfect fade, perfect ass, the works. Otabek can practically smell the “wanna come over and watch Netflix?” texts that are definitely on this dude’s phone.

“Hi,” says Fuckboy, looming. “I’m J.J.”

“Didn’t ask.” Otabek gazes vacantly somewhere over Fuckboy’s left shoulder. (Fuckboy has not earned the use of his first name in Otabek’s mind, and probably won’t.) Otabek can see Yuri in the next room over, hanging on the every word of some guy who looks like he walked out of Hot Topic ten years ago. Well, there’s no accounting for taste.

“Didn’t have to.” Fuckboy leans against the counter next to him. “What’s your name? Or should I just call you ‘gorgeous’ for the rest of the evening?”

“What gave you the impression I’d talk to you the whole evening?”

Fuckboy shrugs. “I’m charming once you get to know me.”

“Yeah? How long’s that take?”

“Baby, I’m an open book.” Fuckboy is now resting one elbow on the counter to face Otabek. “You can ask me anything you wanna know.”

Against his better judgement, Otabek sets his cup down on the counter and turns to Fuckboy. “Yeah? Okay, tell me this: what’s up with all—” he circles his finger in the air in front of Fuckboy— “ _that?_ ”

“What,” Fuckboy says, prodding at his own clothing. “This? I just like it. What’s up with _yours?_ ”

Otabek draws his cardigan more tightly. “I just like it,” he mimics.

“It’d look better—”

“Don’t,” Otabek warns.

“—washed and pressed and hanging up neatly in my closet?” Fuckboy grins at him.

Otabek does not quite manage to keep his lips from twitching, and he makes a strangled sound that was, in no way, a laugh.

Just then, Yuri comes bounding into the kitchen. “Beka!” he says. “You’re off the hook! I’m going to hang out with—uh— _him_.” He jerks a thumb at Hot Topic.

“Maybe find out his name,” Otabek suggests.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it.” Yuri rolls his eyes. Then, his eyebrows shoot up into his hair when he realizes who Otabek is standing next to. “ _You_ ,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Fuckboy nods at him. Not the polite, distant, down-up nod. The other one. “Hey there, kitten.”

“I’m not your _fucking_ kitten,” Yuri snarls. “Otabek! Have you no _taste?_ ”

“He cornered me!” Otabek protests, at the same time as Fuckboy says “I bet he tastes just fine.”

“I’m leaving,” Yuri spits. “Beka, don’t wait up. And for god’s sake find someone better to waste your time on.”

Otabek is not sure he’s ever seen anyone actually turn on their heel before, but Yuri sure does it.

“Finally, we’re alone,” Fuckboy whispers, even though drunk people are still meandering in and out of the kitchen. “So—Beka, was it? Do you feel like you’re wasting your time with me?”

Otabek opts for deflection. “How do you know Yuri?”

“Um. We almost dated one time. Sort of.”

“Almost,” Otabek repeats. “How do you _almost sort of_ date somebody?”

“Okay, I kinda stood him up. It was an accident, though, I swear! Also it was in high school.”

Otabek nods slowly. “And when you stood him up—”

“He came over to my house to see what was up, my parents let him in, and there I was in the living room making out with Emil from the swim team.” Fuckboy looks somewhat ashamed. “Look, it was years ago, but I fucked up, I know it. You’re obviously close to him, so if you want me to go, I get it.”

Otabek tries not to reel from this deluge of new information. “Ah—you don’t have to go….”

“Nah, it’s whatever, I probably should get out of here.” Fuckboy looks a bit glazed-over, possibly even shaken by the run-in with Yuri. “But hey, Beka, you should come watch me at the game tomorrow, okay?”

“Oh my god,” Otabek mutters. “Of _course_ you play football.”

“Don’t make assumptions.” Fuckboy smirks. “I’m a fucking cheerleader, baby.”

“Wait, what?” There is not enough beer in this house to help Otabek process this revelation.

“Oh, _now_ you’re interested.” Fuckboy nods, as if he’s realized something important about Otabek. Although for the life of him Otabek can’t guess what that could be. “Come to the game. Maybe you’ll find out more about me. Maybe you’ll even say my name with that pretty mouth of yours. Or do other things with—”

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Otabek tells him.

Fuckboy blows him a kiss while he walks backward out of the kitchen. It should not be cute. But it kind of is.

Shit.

 

“Thought you didn’t _care_ about homecoming,” Yuri snarks the next afternoon. He’s sitting on the floor of Otabek’s room surrounded by textbooks, not studying.

Otabek selects a navy button-down and examines it. “Thought you had a paper to write, but we can both be wrong, huh?”

“Ugh, put that back. This is a football game, not a librarian’s convention!” Yuri leaps to his feet and takes the hanger from Otabek. “Here, I’ll just do it myself. You want it done right…” He mutters to himself as he flips through the shirt possibilities, then groans as he reaches the end of the hangers. “Don’t you have any others? Oh my god, hang on, I’ll be right back.”

In a few minutes Yuri returns, panting, having apparently raced up a flight to his own room and then come tearing back. In his hands is a neon-orange t-shirt with a tiger’s face on the front. “ _This_ is cool,” he declares, shoving it at Otabek.

Otabek frowns at the shirt. “ _This_ is not my size.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just put it on.”

The shirt is very, very tight, although it’s at least long enough not to turn into a magical ridden-up crop top. “I don’t think—” Otabek starts.

“No no no it’s perfect, wear it, you look—” Yuri’s eyes are so wide. “Beka, fuck, you look _hot_.”

“I look hot in a cardigan!”

“You look warm in a cardigan. Overheated. There’s a difference.”

Otabek considers informing Yuri of the thing about “accounting for taste,” and that he has received plenty of compliments while looking perfectly _normal_ , thank you, but Yuri’s sort of petting at Otabek’s left bicep and that’s distracting.

“This is good,” Yuri insists. “Whoever’s at the game that you want to notice you is definitely gonna notice.”

“What makes you think—”

“Beka. Heart of my heart. My bro. My dude. There is no way you suddenly care about sports besides watching Shoma and Yuzu kick everybody’s asses.” Yuri squints at him. “But who could you possibly—oh my god, am I helping you land _J.J.?_ Traitor!”

“I’m not trying to land anyone! I’m just. Um.”

Yuri sighs. “Just don’t let it go to waste. I’m not actually upset at you. You know that, right? I hate him and he will never be invited to my room parties, but like, go live your dream or whatever.”

On impulse, Otabek pulls Yuri into the warmest, tightest hug he can manage. Yuri squeaks and squirms for a second, but relaxes and wraps his arms around Otabek, too. “Did you know you’re my best friend?” Otabek asks.

“Shut up,” Yuri mumbles. “Okay, yeah, whatever, you’re my best friend too. Now will you go work your wiles on that asshole before my magic wears off?”

 

Otabek would like nothing more than to say the game bored him to tears. Unfortunately, it turns out J.J.—that is, _Fuckboy_ —is pretty fucking talented, and his deep voice is still ringing in Otabek’s mind as he walks back to the dorms that evening. Then his phone buzzes with a text, but the number isn’t in his contacts.

_hey gorgeous ;) so whatd u think?_

It can’t be—but it probably is. _Who is this and how’d you get this number?_ Otabek sends off, already resigning himself to the answer.

_the man of ur dreams. and ur bff gave it to me._

Okay, apparently Yuri was serious about making sure Otabek got properly noticed. Otabek is still trying to work out how to respond when he gets another text.

_wanna come over?_

No, Otabek does not want to come over. He does not want to feign interest in whatever new original series Netflix is premiering til someone’s shirt comes off, he does not want to sit around being pissed off about Fuckboy’s entire existence, and he definitely does not want Fuckboy’s dick in his mouth tonight.

He texts all of that to Fuckboy, since bluntness seems to be the way to go with him.

_we dont have to watch netflix_

_we can do whatevr u want_

_ill wear a cardigan if itll make u happy_

_n i was thinkin id suck urs?_

Oh.

Otabek shakes his head hard. No, they all do this, he knows that, it’s a ploy, it’s a game, it’s… it’s working.

“Motherfucker,” Otabek whispers. A squirrel glares at him from a low tree branch. “Don’t judge me,” he tells it. “You have no idea how good his shoulders look.”

The next text is an address, just a couple buildings over from Otabek’s. Weird—he’d expected a frat house, not another dorm room. He takes a deep breath, and makes for Fuckboy’s residence.

 

“Hi, Beka.” Fuckboy makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hand. “ _Mi casa es su casa_. Make yourself at home. Would you prefer still or sparkling water? Sorry, bad joke, I just have tap water or beer. Also some orange juice, I think.”

“Water,” Otabek croaks. “Water’s fine.” He swallows hard, cursing his mouth, which has gone instantly dry at the sight of shirtless Fuckboy in plaid flannel pajama pants. That are riding really low. That are threadbare in the ass and ragged at the hems and the vague color of clothing that’s been washed too many times over too many years. Pants, in short, that should not be hot at all. Fuckboy hands him a glass of water; he drinks it way too fast.

“So.” Fuckboy chews at his lip. “What do you wanna do?”

Otabek has ideas in mind. He does. There are movies he loves, video games, classic sitcoms, so many options—

He takes three steps forward, reveling in the way Fuckboy’s eyes widen. All of his propriety is crashing down around him and he doesn’t even care. What does he have to lose but his pride, anyway? Screw his pride, he thinks, and fits his mouth against Fuckboy’s.

 

There are things about this evening he’ll tell Yuri later, and things he’ll keep to himself. In the latter category: black silk hair wound in his fingers, twilight-blue eyes looking up at him, broad shoulders warm and solid under his palms.

And J.J.’s name slipping out of his mouth again and again. Safe to say he’s earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> Otabek may or may not be heavily based on, um, me.
> 
> Come say hello [@ tumblr!](https://meimagino.tumblr.com) :)


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